Russia | Season 2 | Episode 3: Fire On The Fourth

The smell of charcoal, saltwater, sunscreen, and grilled food drifted effortlessly through the warm July air.

The beach had been claimed for the afternoon—picnic tables lined with food, coolers buried beneath towels, folding chairs scattered beneath bright umbrellas, and an absurd amount of red, white, and blue decorations that someone (probably Australia) insisted were "not nearly enough."

Farther down the shoreline, children laughed while chasing waves.

Music drifted lazily across the sand.

Somewhere nearby, someone was already arguing over whether the burgers were done.

It was loud.

Comfortably loud.

Normal.

For once.

Today wasn't just Independence Day.

It was America's 250th birthday.

An oddly significant milestone for one of the younger nations.

Naturally, nearly everyone had shown up.

Russia stood nearest one of the grills, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows as he silently flipped burgers with the kind of precision normally reserved for surgery. Every now and then he'd glance toward the crowd—

Then immediately look away again.

Ever since that...night...a month ago in New York, he'd become frustratingly skilled at pretending nothing had happened.

If someone brought it up, he changed the subject.

If someone looked at him too knowingly, he'd suddenly discover something extremely interesting happening somewhere else.

It was almost impressive.

Almost.

Canada sat beneath one of the umbrellas, quietly arranging paper plates into neat stacks despite nobody asking him to. Every so often he'd glance toward the gathering, making sure everyone had drinks before disappearing back into the background almost instinctively.

Invisible, as always.

Though anyone paying close attention would notice he seemed oddly...watchful today.

France floated naturally through the gathering, greeting guests with effortless elegance.

People seemed to relax around her without realizing why.

Conversations flowed easier.

Laughter lingered longer.

Even disagreements somehow softened after she wandered past.

She carried herself with graceful confidence, though behind practiced smiles she quietly questioned every compliment sent her way.

Was it genuine?

Or merely another consequence of existing?

She'd stopped expecting to know the difference years ago.

Britain occupied a chair just far enough from everyone else to imply he wasn't interested in socializing—

Yet somehow remained close enough to hear absolutely everything.

A cup of tea rested comfortably in one hand despite the summer heat.

Nobody questioned it anymore.

He occasionally looked toward France with the familiar expression of someone preparing to lose another verbal chess match before it had even begun.

Germany had somehow become responsible for half the barbecue despite never volunteering.

One moment he'd simply been helping.

Now he was organizing food, checking temperatures, making sure nobody forgot to eat, and quietly replacing empty serving trays before anyone noticed.

He looked up occasionally whenever someone laughed.

Satisfied everyone seemed happy...

...he returned to flipping sausages.

Australia was, unsurprisingly, making himself everyone else's problem.

He'd already attempted climbing onto the lifeguard tower "for a better view," encouraged at least three terrible ideas, and somehow convinced Brazil to help him bury a cooler "for dramatic effect."

Nobody was entirely sure why.

Nobody wanted to ask.

At least twice he'd wandered past Russia with an innocent smile that usually meant trouble.

Japan sat comfortably beneath the shade, reading quietly despite the surrounding noise.

She looked up only occasionally, calmly observing the group with thoughtful eyes before returning to her book.

The atmosphere didn't bother her.

Silence existed even inside noise.

She'd mastered finding it.

India moved naturally between conversations, helping where she was needed before anyone actually asked.

She offered sunscreen to someone who'd forgotten.

Found a lost beach ball before the children even realized it had rolled away.

Stopped briefly to admire the nearby dunes where wild grasses bent gently beneath the ocean breeze.

Nature always had something worth listening to.

Finland had somehow chosen the quietest stretch of beach available.

A folding chair.

A cooler.

An oversized mug of coffee despite the weather.

Nobody questioned that either.

His scarf remained wrapped loosely around his neck because, according to him, "the wind exists."

Whether that actually justified wearing it in July remained heavily debated.

He watched the gathering with the expression of someone simultaneously enjoying everyone's company...

...and wondering how long it would be before someone inevitably did something catastrophically stupid.

Statistically speaking—

It would probably be Australia.

Or America.

Possibly both.

The afternoon drifted onward.

Conversations overlapped.

Food disappeared almost as quickly as Germany cooked it.

Fireworks waited patiently for sunset.

For a little while...

Everything felt peaceful.

...

Miles away.

Beyond the laughter.

Beyond the music.

Beyond the shoreline.

A black SUV sat motionless beneath the shade of distant trees overlooking the beach.

Inside, a broad-shouldered man lowered a pair of binoculars.

His expression never changed.

"They're all here."

Marcus Hale reached for the radio.

"Begin Phase One."

The world shattered with a sharp thwip.

Not a gunshot.

Too quiet.

Too precise.

Australia had only enough time to blink.

"...Huh?"

Something protruded from the side of his neck—a small dart no bigger than a finger.

He reached up lazily, plucked it free, and stared at it.

"...Oi."

A beat.

"...That's... probably not ideal."

His words slurred before anyone could react.

His knees buckled.

One second he was standing beside the grill with a paper plate in one hand.

The next—

THUD.

Australia hit the sand face-first hard enough to send someone's soda can rolling across the beach.

Silence.

Germany froze.

"...Australia?"

Britain's head snapped toward him.

"Australia?"

Canada was already kneeling beside him, checking for a pulse with practiced urgency.

"...He's breathing."

India dropped beside them almost immediately, one hand against Australia's shoulder.

"Australia?"

Nothing.

Not even a groan.

Japan's eyes narrowed.

"...That wasn't natural."

Russia's gaze swept the shoreline.

Every instinct he'd spent centuries surviving with screamed.

Someone was here.

The wind shifted.

Then—

Slow.

Measured.

Almost leisurely—

A figure stepped from the tree line bordering the beach.

Not running.

Not hiding.

Simply... walking.

Black tactical boots pressed into the sand.

Dark clothing.

Combat harness.

A pistol holstered at one hip.

A rifle hung comfortably across one shoulder as though it weighed nothing at all.

The man stopped several yards away.

Hands visible.

Completely relaxed.

Like he'd arrived at a neighborhood barbecue.

His blue eyes drifted over the gathering.

Lingering briefly on Germany.

Then Britain.

Then Canada.

Then finally...

The empty space where his intended target should have been.

His brow lifted.

"...Huh."

A disappointed sigh escaped him.

"I was aiming for Germany."

His gaze shifted slightly.

"...Or America."

Another pause.

Instead, he looked down at Australia's unconscious form.

"...Well."

"...Close enough."

Germany slowly stood.

His voice remained calm.

"...Who are you?"

The stranger smiled.

Not warmly.

Not cruelly.

Just...

Professionally.

"Marcus Hale."

Recognition rippled through several of them immediately.

Britain's expression hardened.

"...The former FBI commander."

"The former one, yes."

Marcus brushed an invisible grain of sand from one sleeve.

"I've found retirement disappointingly boring."

Russia had already stepped half a pace in front of the others without seeming to realize he'd done it.

His eyes never left Marcus.

"...What did you shoot him with?"

Marcus shrugged.

"A sedative."

"I'd say he'll wake up in..." He checked his watch.

"...Four hours."

Another pause.

"...Maybe six."

India glared.

"You drugged him."

"I did."

"You attacked us."

"I did."

Canada slowly rose to his feet.

"...Why?"

Marcus looked almost surprised the answer wasn't obvious.

"Because evolution is inefficient."

His eyes swept across every Countryhuman standing before him.

"You people possess biological potential unlike anything our species has ever documented."

"And yet..."

"You refuse to evolve."

Germany's jaw tightened.

"...Evolution isn't something we choose."

Marcus smiled wider.

"No."

"It isn't."

"Stress chooses."

His gaze settled on Russia.

Then Britain.

Then Germany.

Then finally drifted toward the unseen presence of {{User}} somewhere beyond the group.

"I merely intend to... encourage the process."

Nobody spoke.

The waves continued crashing behind them.

Fireworks from a distant beach painted brief flashes of red and blue across the evening sky.

Marcus clasped his hands behind his back.

"I've already had several successful demonstrations."

"A few secondary evolutions."

"One tertiary."

He sounded almost proud.

"Remarkable things happen when survival becomes non-negotiable."

Russia's voice came out dangerously quiet.

"...You're torturing Countryhumans."

Marcus tilted his head.

"I prefer..."

"...accelerating adaptation."

Canada's fists clenched.

India looked ready to lunge.

Germany's expression had gone frighteningly blank.

Britain rested one hand against his cane.

Japan hadn't moved at all.

Finland—silent until now—spoke from the edge of the gathering, his calm voice carrying unnaturally clearly over the surf.

"...You're insane."

Marcus actually laughed.

It wasn't loud.

It wasn't dramatic.

Just amused.

"So they keep telling me."

His eyes wandered back to Australia lying unconscious in the sand.

"...Pity."

"I was hoping to start with someone... more difficult."

His gaze lifted once more.

This time, it settled directly toward {{User}}.

"And now..."

"I believe introductions are over."

Open scenario!